


Better the Devil

by Corycides



Series: Hands On [9]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeremy muses on the past, the present and his pants as he watches the militia he gave 15 years too start to slip away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better the Devil

 

Once upon a time (four years ago), Jeremy had his bags packed and a place booked on a trading caravan up to Canada. Except he never went (spending the night drinking with a grimly sober Monroe). Sometimes he thought that was the biggest mistake of his life...and there was some stiff competition in there.

Hell, it wasn't even like he'd call Monroe his friend. Colleague? Compatriot? Conspirator. Whatever, he had to call the man 'General' and been threatened with death for getting too familiar more than once. From what he remembered, friendship was more football, beer and talking about women – or men, if that's what floated your boat.

He was still here, though. A glutton for punishment, loyal as a dumb dog.

'Miles, of course it was,' Monroe said, sloshing whiskey into a glass. 'He is a thorn in my side.'

'More of a bullet,' Jeremy said absently. He eyed the decanter, but apparently he wasn't a 'drinking with' subordinates sort of day.

'Do. Not. Try my patience,' Monroe said, wrapping his lips precisely around each word. 'You haven't exactly covered yourself with glory these last months.'

Jeremy pursed his lips and looked up, running through a selection of answers in his head. Most of them would get him shot – like 'unlike you, whose every plan is a _glorious_ success' or 'maybe you shouldn't have kept sending a man who got that excited about Lionel Ritchie on missions' or 'at least I didn't believe Jason was actually dead'.

I mean, seriously? Like Julia wouldn't have given Tom a shovel and his marching orders until he went out and brought her baby home for a proper burial?

'It's not been a good year,' he said instead. 'Who'd have thought the rebels would sell out to the peach-eaters?'

Monroe gave a disgusted grunt and dropped into a chair in front of the fire, propping his boots on the stone hearth. The fire flickered in the glass as he lifted it to drink.

'Well, not as if Blanchard would ally with Miles,' he said. His fingers flicked towards the other chair. 'Sit.'

OK, he wasn't _actually_ a dog. Monroe did know that right?

Or maybe he was. He did as he was told, even though he was aching after the last few weeks campaign. The second round got him a glass of his own, and they drank their way through plans against the rebels and into Monroe's son.

'I don't even know his name,' Monroe said, voice cracking. 'Even if I found him, he'd blame me for his mother's death.'

'You didn't kill her.' Tried to, but got pipped to the post.

'I tried to burn her – all of them – alive,' Monroe said. Sometimes – mostly when he was pissed – he could be fairly self-aware. 'No-one will be blaming Miles.'

'I'd argue,' Jeremy said. 'But you shoot people who do that.'

Monroe snorted and rolled his glass over his cheek. 'I'm not going to shoot you.'

'God, don't poison me,' Jeremy groaned, tossing back the dregs of whiskey. 'After drinking this swill all these years, my stomach is cast iron. I'd linger for days.'

A smile tucked Monroe's mouth. 'Good point,' he said. 'I'll bear that in mind.'

It took another hour to get to the point where Jeremy was pouring his drunken general into bed. He lifted Monroe's feet onto the bed, but drew the line at taking his boots off. Dog he might be, valet he wasn't. There was a line.

Jeremy stumbled back out in the main room and paused, leaning on the back of a chair. His rooms would be cold – even a dying fire was better than none - and the cot was hardly more comfortable than a chair. It wouldn't do the militia command's image much good for the enlisted men to see him wobbling his way back home, either.

He lowered himself into Monroe's chair and slouched down, fidgeting around until he got comfortable. The smell of the General's sweat and the sharp admixture of cologne and whiskey soaked into Jeremy. Yeah, he wasn't going to doze off smelling Monroe all over him. He shoved himself up out of the chair and flopped into his.

Too late, his cock had decided it was lonely. Jeremy shifted and reached down, pressing his hand against the hard bulge of his erection. Sharp jabs of pleasure spread through his balls and tightened his ass.

Fuck. It would be a lot easier if he wasn't attracted to Monroe. Jeremy dropped his head back and cupped himself through his trousers, thumb tracing the length of his cock. He'd be a lot more sure that his decisions weren't based on some tragic, unrequited crush. The fucking Eponine to Miles' Cosette...and he really needed to think of a comparison that gave both of them dicks. There were some things no-one needed to imagine, and Miles in a frilly white dress and blonde wig was right up there.

On the other hand, it wasn't like he figured there was going to be some sort of happily married ever after. To be honest, he was pretty sure they were more likely to get a 'hereafter' at this point. Probably a toasty one. Even if they weren't, Monroe was pretty determinedly straight. He'd say straight, but the thing was Miles was pretty intense.

The longest Jeremy had waited for someone – and it wasn't like he'd been celibate since he first cracked one out over the thought of Monroe's firm ass - was about a week. After that, well, it just seemed a waste of all the other cock in the world.

He pushed the heel of his hand down on his cock, feeling the press of it against his palm, and bit his lip to stop from groaning. His thighs cramped, a hot ache twisting up into his stomach. Fuck it.

Jeremy flicked the flaps of his jacket out of the way and tugged his trousers open, shoving it down over his cock. He reached down and cupped his balls, scraping callused fingers over the fine skin.

It had started as a memory, but practice had worn off the corners and added a few extra bits to make getting off efficient.

Eight years after the Blackout, before it all went wrong, and 100 miles outside of Boston. They'd won. They won most of the time by then.

Jeremy pursed his lips and shifted, lifting his hips. Yeah, he could skip most of that – straight to him drunkenly staggering into his tent and dropping onto the narrow, creaking cot. Instead of sharp springs poking through a thin mattress he found a warm, thick muscled body cushioning him.

He groped whoever it was happily, hand sliding down a slabbed line of muscled stomach and biting the taste of sweat and something sharp and scenty off a scarred shoulder. His cock gave a half-hearted nudge against a heavy thigh and -

Fingers twisted in his hair and yanked, dragging his head up. Casual strength and the ache of the pull sending hot impulses of interest down his spine.

'What do you think you're doing.' The voice was familiar, low and scratch-raspy from yelling. General Monroe.

What _actually_ happened had been a whole lot of apologising – framed by a tourette-like blurt of curse words – and after the initial petting nothing particularly, successfully erotic. Jeremy had ended up spending the evening – 'Just fucking lie down and shut up,' Monroe had growled impatiently – perched on the edge of the cot with an uncomfortably persistent hard-on and – the cause of the hard on – Monroe tucked into his back and breathing against his neck.

Luckily, the joy of wank fodder was that it didn't have to be real...or likely, or even statistically probable. That was _Maxim'_ s entire business model.

His mental edit left him sprawled on the bed, savouring the picked-out, dragged out memory of Monroe's body and smell and the moist brush of his breath, while he twisted his hand roughly around his cock in hard, hurrying strokes. He was tired, he wasn't really interesting in dragging this out.

He bit his tongue, trapping the end of it between his teeth, and concentrated on the tight ache of pleasure knotting together in his groin. His breath hissed noisily down his nose, but he kept his eyes open. You did not close your eyes while masturbating in your immediate, and occasionally trigger happy, superior's office.

It probably would have been a good idea not to jerk-off at all, but those were about three whiskeys ago.

Tugging his hand back down his shaft, the skin of his cock dragging under his fingers, Jeremy lifted his hips up off the seat. He tightened his grip around the base of his cock and felt come push against his fingertips like a pulse. Orgasm raked through him, clenching every muscle in his lanky body, and come splattered over his stomach and thighs. It left him limp, sated and lonely. He needed a boyfriend. It had been months since he left Ron in Wisconsin – long distance relationships never worked, even when there was a postal service – and he never really had done well alone.

For now, he slouched in the borrowed chair and let come go sticky on his stomach as he waited for the energy to clean himself up. It turned up eventually, and he wiped up, blotted his trousers with water and threw the handkerchief into the fire.

He didn't think he was still here for Monroe. Sometimes, when his brain was still, he thought it might be easier if that was it. He'd been fucking up relationships for three decades, but the only thing he'd ever worked to be loyal to was the militia.

It had been good once, solid. They'd been _welcome_ places. And no one yet had come up with an viable alternative. The rebels talked a good game, but they seemed to be depending on the Once and Future President turning up and drawing a Executive branch from his ass once they took over. Well, they had. These days they seemed to have decided being ruled by Foster was a better bet. Clearly, they hadn't done all their research there.

And Monroe...under the paranoia and the anger, he was still a good man sometimes. There was a reason Philadelphia was full of refugees from the stripped outer farmlands. They still trusted him. Jeremy still trusted him.

Horniness would have been easier to shake that idealism. Not that he mattered, Jeremy supposed. They were all going to die – barring a miracle the pendants had turned out not to be – after all these years they might as well not do it alone.


End file.
